


To Love a Family of Ghosts

by banditess



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, M/M, Polyamory, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 04:52:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13628982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banditess/pseuds/banditess
Summary: Spoilers for Season 3 Episode 5, A Life in the DayRemembering traces of their alternate timeline lives proves a difficult thing for Quentin to bear. Enter Eliot, ever supportive, with a small bit of comfort.





	To Love a Family of Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> I'm only on the very periphery of this fandom but episode 3x5 _broke me_ and I spent two days thinking about it so intensely I could barely concentrate at work, so I had to write _something_ or I was going to explode, haha. Fic title comes from the [Murder By Death song "Shiola,"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4EDqOGQTUgI) the lyrics for which are pretty appropriate for the episode.
> 
> Please forgive any inaccuracies/ooc-ness, I watch the show religiously but I haven't read the books since they were released, and this is my first time writing for the fandom. I'd also apologize for the heartbreak, but if you're a Magicians fan, you're probably used to that by now. :)
> 
> Thank you for reading! ♥

The memories come to Quentin most often in the early hours of the morning, floating into his chamber window along with the sunlight that illuminates the stark, pearly interior of Castle Whitespire. Slowly, he opens his eyes and pulls himself upright, and for a moment he panics: the walls should be _wood_ , the ground should be _dirt_ \-- and how did everything get so _shiny_? Instinctively, he reaches out to his sides and grasps to take hold of _their hands_ to steady himself, but comes away with a fistful of bedsheets.  
  
Quentin remembers the feeling of sharing his bed -- _their_ bed. A nostalgic ache blooms in his chest as he recalls fingers unconsciously intertwined in slumber, bodies cozied up close during cold Fillorian nights, and the fullness of being surrounded by unconditional love. He looks at the spaces beside him, and the emptiness breaks his heart.  
  
There is a soft knocking at his chamber door, and then a creaking sound. Quentin looks up as Eliot lets himself in. Maybe it’s some small bit of magic, a holdover from the alternate timeline, or maybe it’s some other connection forged between them, but they always seem to experience the memories simultaneously, like effervescence rising to the surface. And so this has become a ritual for them over the past few weeks: Quentin wakes up, sad, or upset, or confused (let's be real, almost always confused), and moments later Eliot appears. What happens after his arrival depends on what has been remembered.  
  
Today, Eliot finds Quentin with both hands white-knuckling his sheets and a stricken expression on his face. He takes a seat on the side of the bed and puts his hand over Quentin’s.  
  
“I miss her too,” Eliot murmurs, as though speaking it any louder will shatter the memory like glass.  
  
“It's not _just_ her.” Quentin spares a quick glance at Eliot before his lip begins to tremble. He sniffles. “It's _us_. Our...our _family_. God _damnit_ , that still feels weird to say. And I don't even know how I can feel so sad, since it sort of _didn't happen_? Except it _did_? Just _very far_ in the past, to other versions of us who are now _dead_.”  
  
“You're overthinking it again. I thought we agreed, no overthinking?” The High King scolds him. “Time travel is _way_ too fucked up to even begin trying to wrap our heads around it. We got the key, and we’re alive here and now. Let's just do our best to deal with the rest of it as it comes. Okay?”  
  
Quentin nods. He looks away from his friend and towards the window, trying but failing to hide the fact that he is wiping tears from his face.  
  
“Oh, Q,” Eliot sighs, reaching out to tuck a stray hair back over Quentin’s ear. “You know I can't stand to see you like this. Scooch over.”  
  
He pushes himself aside to make room. And though Eliot’s time in Fillory has taught him much about putting on a brave face, Quentin catches the melancholy look of longing in his friend's eyes as Eliot lifts the sheet to join him under the covers. They settle almost immediately into a comfortable position, with Eliot wrapping his arm around Quentin, who lays his head against Eliot’s chest. Quentin can't help but feel like these are echoes of the past rippling into the present, like he has done this -- _they_ have done this -- thousands of times before. Eliot’s warmth and the rhythmic drumbeat of his heart are familiar, soothing. There is still a piece missing, but this is much better than the lonely bed he woke up to.  
  
It’s still quite early, judging by the light coming through the chamber window, and the denizens of Castle Whitespire have yet to start their day. For the time being, there is nowhere to be but here. Fingers and hearts entwined, the soft dawn sun gently rocks the Kings of Fillory back to sleep.  



End file.
